


The Trauma of Tesco

by BarPurple



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Greg being a good mate, Post The Final Problem, Shopping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-28
Updated: 2017-01-28
Packaged: 2018-09-20 11:09:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9488486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BarPurple/pseuds/BarPurple
Summary: Sherlock asked Greg to look after Mycroft, and that involved stocking up his fridge.





	

Mycroft was knotting his tie when there was a knock on the door of his hospital room. 

“Good afternoon Detective Inspector, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

Greg had seen plenty of people getting out of hospital after a traumatic shock and not a single one of them looked as well put together as Mycroft Holmes appeared to be, at first glance at least. Greg knew the older Holmes bother well enough to spot the tension in his stance, and the over tight knot of his tie. He would bet next month’s pay check that he was an emotional wreck, nobody, not even the Iceman, could be calm and collected after the events of the last twenty-four hours.

“Sherlock,” Greg saw the panic in Mycroft’s eyes and hastily added, “Is fine. He asked me to make sure you got home okay.”

He’d actually said ‘Look after him, please Greg’, and this was how he’d chosen to do that. After his tiny emotional slip Mycroft retreated back behind the mask of Iceman.

“That is very generous, Lestrade, but I am perfectly capable of making my own way home.”

“If you’re thinking of calling your driver, you should know that Sherlock has commandeered him to get John back to Rosie.”

Mycroft sagged just a little, “Ah, yes that would make sense.”

Greg picked up the small overnight bag that Anthea must had arranged and held the door open, Mycroft tried to take the bag from his hand, but Greg resisted.

“I am not an invalid!”

“Just let someone else take care of you for a change.”

 

Mycroft was quiet while they were driving. Greg didn’t give him concerned sideways glances, he didn’t need to, he could tell the man was hurting as wasn’t ready to talk about it yet.

“What are we doing here?”

Greg had stopped at the closest supermarket to Mycroft’s home, a Tesco as it happened, probably wasn’t up to the standard that Mycroft was used to, but Greg knew the range they offered well.

“Sherlock sent me a picture of the state of your fridge, says your kitchen cupboards are as bad, so we’re going to grab a few things for you.”

Mycroft pulled a face that Greg thought of as a Sherlock Special; that combination of despair at the world and sulking pout that must be pre-programmed into Holmes DNA. Well, Greg knew how to deal with that; he fished his handcuffs out of his pocket and dangled them from a finger in front of Mycroft’s face.

“You either come in there with me willingly, or…”

Mycroft snorted; “You wouldn’t dare.”

Greg cocked an eyebrow in response; “You do remember that I have dealt with your brother for the past decade?”

“Ah, yes, of course.”

 

Shopping with Mycroft was a pain in the arse; he was stiff and clearly uncomfortable in the aisles, refusing to comment on anything added to the trolley. Greg ended up shopping like he would for himself, fresh veg, chicken and sauces that could be quickly turned into a stir-fry, and a stack of ready meals for ‘can’t be arsed to cook’ nights. He had to grin when he tried to put a bag of PG Tips into the trolley; Mycroft plucked them from his hand and returned them to the shelf as if they had personally offended him, before selecting a box of English Breakfast instead. Mycroft refused to walk down the cake aisle. He was however a demon packer when they got to the till, Greg usually just looked helpless until the checkout staff gave him a hand, but the scanned items barely had time to slither down into the packing area before they were added to a bag.

Mycroft relaxed once they were back on the road heading towards his home. 

“So, what are you going to eat tonight?”

“I neither know nor care.”

Greg muttered something rude to himself, looked like he was going to be cooking for the British Government tonight.


End file.
